


Strike Us Like Matches ('Cause Everyone Deserves The Flames)

by orphan_account



Series: For the Scars and Stories [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Cameos, Consensual Violence, Crack, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Outdoor Sex, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-30
Updated: 2011-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the hockey teams we know and love are organized crime cartels battling for control of North America, where battling usually means distracting or punching, and Andrew Ladd might be taking the Godfather's legendary advice to "keep your friends close and your enemies closer" a little bit too literally.</p><p>That's right: this ain't a rink, it's a goddamn Mafia AU. Happy Hockey Holidays!</p><p>(Warnings for off-screen death of a minor character, some violence, and insults to the honor of various current and former Canucks players.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strike Us Like Matches ('Cause Everyone Deserves The Flames)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beatperfume](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beatperfume/gifts).



> Thanks to [impertinence](http://archiveofourown.org/users/impertinence) for reading this over for me. Background pairings include Kane/Toews, Keith/Seabrook, and Sharp/Burish. The title is from the lyrics to "Champagne For My Real Friends, Real Pain For My Sham Friends" by Fall Out Boy. Nearly all of the characters who aren't hockey players are shameless cameos of people I know in real life. Everything I know about organized crime, I learned from the Life Magazine "Mobsters and Gangsters" issue, the due South fic [Chicago's Most Wanted](http://trickster.org/speranza/CMWanted.html), and the Community episode "Contemporary American Poultry."

Ladd always wakes up early on mornings he's been tapped. The note came late last night, so by seven, he's up and showered and ready to head downstairs for breakfast. Steeger is still sacked out in the other bed in their room, even though he's been tapped too.

Coffee. He definitely needs coffee. Down in the communal kitchen, Tazer has had the same idea: he's sitting on a stool by the counter, guzzling it with his eyes closed. Unlike Ladd, though, he hasn't bothered putting on anything besides his boxer briefs.

"Any left?" Ladd asks him. Tazer grunts and gestures towards the coffee maker with his mug. "Thanks."

Cup in hand, Ladd contemplates the cereal choices. He can tell Kaner did the shopping last: Froot Loops, Cap'n Crunch, Apple Jacks... Finally, he finds plain Cheerios, and he heads out to the dining room table with a bowlful and plenty of black coffee.

Duncs greets him silently, raising his coffee cup, so Ladd takes the hint and sits down for a quiet breakfast. Tazer drifts in after a while; his eyes are open now, so this must be at least his second cup.

Around 8, the upstairs workers start coming in. The Chicago outfit wouldn't be the well-oiled machine it is without plenty of people to run the legitimate side of things, the St. Sebastian Urban Aid Organization. Some people are almost exclusively upstairs, stuff like distribution and accounting. Ladd and Duncs are pretty much just downstairs, since there aren't exactly many legal uses for their skill-sets.

Guys like Tazer move between both worlds, which is why he's Q's right-hand man. He does a lot of convincing people to do things his way. Ladd glances over at Tazer. Well, it works better when he's awake. And wearing clothes.

Q comes in then, straightening his sport coat on his way to the coffee maker. He looks at them all over the rim as he takes his first sip, then says, "Well, what are we waiting for?" and heads for the briefing room.

"Come on, boys," Tazer says. He grabs a pair of track pants hanging over the back of a chair and steps into them, then follows Q. Ladd takes a moment to drink the last of the milk from his cereal bowl before following him, coffee cup in hand.

When he gets there, Q is in his usual spot, leaning against the white board rather than sitting at the head of the table, watching this morning's section of the Chicago outfit filter in. Tazer stands behind the next chair, close to the head and facing towards the door. Sharpy's sitting backwards on one of the next chairs, with Kaner perched on the table in front of him. Ladd takes a seat towards the back and cracks his knuckles slowly, one by one.

Bolly is the last one in, as usual. He glances over the table, counting heads and checking them off the list, then closes and locks the door before slipping into his seat. "All present and accounted for," he tells Q.

Q nods. "All right, gentlemen," he begins. "First order of business: go ahead, miss."

Bean, the head of accounting, stands up and folds her arms across her chest. "We all know how Capone went down," she says. "If you don't all get your expense reports in to me by the end of the month, I'll sic the IRS on you myself." She sits back down.

"Don't test her, boys," Q says. "Next?"

"Okay," says the community service supervisor, who they call Kyle, "we have a few different community service opportunities coming up in the next couple of weeks. I'm going to send out an email pretty soon, but if you could start thinking about what you'd like to do and when you'll be free, that'd be great." She twirls a piece of hair absently around one finger. "On Saturday, we'll be at the children's museum and the soup kitchen as usual; Sunday, the Brown Elephant needs people to help unload some donated furniture; and don't forget, the Center on Halsted always needs people to answer phones and put up posters. So let me know if you have any questions!" Kyle starts to sit down, then jumps back up. "Oh! And Doc says to remind you that she'll be here next week for TB testing."

"Thank you," Q says." The two women leave the room; they're both high enough clearance to hear what's going on if they want to, if Ladd remembers correctly, but they generally both prefer to err on the side of plausible deniability. Everyone there does, to some extent -- he can only think of a few people whose legal name he knows, because if you only know somebody as "Seabs" or "Doc" or "that one girl from California," you can't sell them out.

Q clears his throat and continues. "It looks like the Vancouver family is making another move on our territory. Our sources say there'll be a small group of their boys at a meeting with Walsh and Rooney tonight at the Rainforest Café."

"The Rainforest Café," Tazer repeats. "You're joking."

Q's mustache twitches. "Not up to your standards, eh?"

"I love that place!" At Tazer's snort, Kaner says, "What? Animatronic gorillas, giant chocolate cakes, and alcoholic milkshakes. If they had air hockey, it would literally be the perfect restaurant."

Ladd's pretty sure Q is stifling a laugh when he says, "Thank you, Kaner. I'm sure they appreciate your support."

"Tough place to bug," Duncs says. "All those bird noises."

"That's probably why they chose it," Q says, "unless they just happen to be as fond of it as Kaner." His mustache twitches again. "So I'd like to send a few of you out to get to the bottom of this. Kaner, you'll be inside with Sopes --" Kaner does an air-fistbump toward Sopes, who obligingly returns it -- "and Ladd, I want you and Steeger outside."

"Awesome," Ladd says. He's been getting antsy lately. Some fresh air and fresh blood is exactly what he needs.

"Can I hide behind the giant Weber grill?" Steeger asks.

"If you can get up there without anyone seeing you, absolutely," Q says, not missing a beat.

"Consider it done!" Ladd high-fives him.

"Stop in Nemo's office for the dossiers before you start work. Duncs and Seabs will be a few blocks away in the van. John, you'll be the driver." Q gets a map of River North up on his laptop and starts drawing on the whiteboard where it's projected. "They only purchased four plane tickets, but that doesn't necessarily mean that's their whole crew. The tickets were purchased for Burrows, Salo, Raymond, and Kesler. The possibilities for additional personnel range from one to three, but their plans in BC for the week point to fewer rather than more."

Steeger is writing this down. Ladd approves. "Have we checked the Rainforest Café's reservation log?" Steeger asks.

"The reservation is under Rooney's name at 7:30 pm for five to seven guests," Q says. "Of course, how useful that is depends on how many of their boys even plan to go inside."

"There's a gift shop, too," says Kaner.

"Of course there is," Sharpy says, dropping his head back to look at the ceiling.

Kaner punches him in the shoulder. "And you don't have to have a reservation to go in there," he continues, "so they could have guys inside but not in the dining area."

"Good point," Q says, making Kaner smile. "Sharpy, why don't you accompany Kaner and Sopes to the restaurant? Sopes, once your wires are set, you can see what the gift shop has to offer."

"Yes, sir," Sharpy says. Ladd bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the long-suffering look on his absurdly handsome face.

"I'll bring pictures of my kids," Sopes says. Just the thought of them makes him smile, so he looks, Ladd thinks, like an extremely happy catfish. Pretty much the exact opposite of Sharpy.

Q nods decisively. "That's the plan, then. Any further questions or comments?" He glances around the room. "All right, all of you but Tazer are free to go."

***

Later, Ladd drags Steeger to the gym with him so they can kill two birds with one stone. "Here, you can read the good parts of the dossiers out loud while you use the stationary bike, eh?" he says, steering him towards the one nearest the weight bench.

"Who says I want to do cardio?" Steeger complains, but he hops on the bike anyway, opening the manila folder Nemo gave him on the control panel.

"Don't whine, it's good for you." Ladd sets the weights for bench press. Free weights are better, but their hours are too weird to have to rely on finding a spotter. "So who are we looking for?"

"The guys who bought tickets are Salo, Kesler, Raymond, and Burrows," Steeger says. He shuffles papers. Ladd does two sets of five reps. "You've gone up against Salo before, right?"

"Yeah," Ladd says, grimacing at the memory. "The guy's either a Zen master or made of steel. Or both."

"Raymond, no one's seen, but word is he does surveillance and intelligence, that kind of stuff."

"So we're keeping an eye out for Duncs, only with an even more Canadian accent?"

"Pot, kettle, eh?" Steeger says, laughing.

"Whatever, you know what I mean. I've lived in Chicago so long it's in my voice," Ladd says. "I'm even used to milk in jugs."

"Except when you're on the phone with your mom," Steeger points out, which is fair. "Moving on, we have Burrows. French-Canadian, apparently very charming, dark hair."

"You think he's running this job?" Ladd asks.

"From Nemo's intel, either him or Kesler," Steeger says.

"Have I heard that name before?"

"Possibly. They say he's getting groomed to move up in their outfit, so keep your ears open. He's tall, dumb hair, big nose. We actually have a surveillance photo of him, from one of our California contacts." He holds up a grainy printout in black and white.

Ladd studies it. Steeger's description is pretty accurate; Kesler's hair is in some kind of three-pointed fauxhawk, which looks dumb and douchey. But he's smiling at something outside the frame, so his dark eyes have crinkles at the corners.

"The Germans have a word for him," Steeger says.

"Is that so?" Ladd goes back to benching.

"Yeah, _backpfeifengesicht._ It means 'a face begging for a fist.'"

"You've got hidden depths, Steeger," Ladd tells him.

"He read that on Cracked," Duncs says from the rack of barbells, making them both jump.

"Jesus, what are you, some kind of tattletale ninja?" Steeger asks. He glares at Duncs, who's busy choosing weights.

"Yeah, it's my new job," Duncs says easily. "Sneaking around ruining punchlines."

"It's okay, I'm still impressed you remembered it," Ladd says, so Steeger won't flip out. It'd be funny, but Steeger's aim would be shit with a black eye.

" _Anyway,_ " Steeger says, "God willing and the creek don't rise, you'll be the lucky guy who gets to punch him."

"That'd be nice," Ladd says. He moves on to doing squats, imagining breaking Kesler's nose. It's a very pleasant fantasy. He can almost feel the crunch against his knuckles. Yeah, this is going to be a good night.

***

"How do I look?" Ladd looks up from his map of River North. Kaner is standing in the doorway. He's wearing a Hawaiian shirt open two buttons too many, tight acid-washed jeans, and a huge gold crucifix, and his hair is slicked back.

"Stunning," Ladd says after a moment.

"So loud you need earplugs?" Kaner asks, grinning. "I'm hoping I can make Sharpy cry."

"He probably will, you're going to burn his eyeballs."

"Perfect!" And he disappears down the hall.

Well, if Kaner's already dressed, Ladd figures he should get ready too. His clothes are comfortable and nondescript, unlike Kaner's. If all goes well, people on the street will just look right past him. Once he's dressed and ready, a roll of quarters in each pocket and his lucky St. Sebastian medal on his belt loop, Ladd heads out of his room.

Sharpy runs right into him. "Whoa there," Ladd says, steadying him. "Everything all right?"

"Have you seen Kaner?" Sharpy demands.

Ladd eyes him. Sharpy's wearing a nice gray suit with a purple tie; he looks as classy as Kaner doesn't. "Yeah, a few minutes ago. Why?"

"I think he's hiding from me. If he's trying to make me break character again, I swear to God..." He breaks off. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"No reason," Ladd says, stifling a grin. "What are your characters tonight?"

"Birthday party," Sharpy says. "Kaner's turning 23, I'm his boyfriend, and Sopes is a friend from work who feels like a third wheel, which is why he keeps wandering off."

Ladd bites his lower lip hard. This is going to be fun. "Perfect," he says. "I'm sure you'll have a wonderful time."

"You're laughing," Sharpy says, narrowing his eyes. "What did he do?"

"Sub rosa." Ladd points to the roses painted on the tops of all the door frames. "You'll see."

"If he's wearing those fake teeth again, I'm going to destroy both of you." Sharpy stalks off.

"Those teeth were a good one." A giant hand drops onto Ladd's shoulder -- John, of course. "I'm glad Kaner had Duncs in on it so we got pictures from all angles."

"I wish we could have used them for Christmas cards," Ladd says wistfully.

"There's pizza downstairs, if you want to eat something before we leave."

"You're a gentleman and a scholar," Ladd says. He doesn't want to fill up -- gut punches on a full stomach are even less fun -- but a slice or two would be good.

"Remember that when I'm driving like a maniac later, eh?" He pats Ladd's shoulder again.

***

It feels like he's been standing out here forever. Ladd knows no news is good news, and the quieter things are, the better for the people they protect, and all that -- but dammit, he's bored. He kicks a pile of leaves, sending them scattering across the sidewalk.

"Eyes up," says Duncs' voice in his ear.

"Finally," Ladd mutters. He looks up, glancing from side to side like he's planning to cross the street, and there's Kesler. He's walking along the street like he doesn't have a care in the world. In _Chicago._

Rage rises up in Ladd's throat. He forces himself to stay still and calm until Kesler is almost on top of him, like a coiled spring. Three steps away, two steps, one -- and he punches Kesler in the gut, then heaves him into the alley by the back of his shirt.

"The fuck?" Kesler's first swing misses, but the second catches Ladd in the eye. The flare of pain lights up all his nerves like sparklers.

"What do you think you're doing here, Vancouver?" Ladd asks. Before Kesler can answer, he kicks his legs out from under him and plants one boot on his solar plexus.

And Kesler _laughs._ "What do you think, Chicago?" He kicks Ladd in his weight-bearing knee awkwardly, just hard enough to knock him off balance, and scrambles back up to his feet. "Or don't you get paid to think?"

Ladd's fist cracks into his jaw. "Wouldn't you like to know," he snaps. He knows better than to let himself get baited into revealing something like that. The second punch feels even better than the first. Kesler won't forget him soon.

The asshole laughs again, then slams him against the wall with an arm across his shoulders. Ladd bucks to get him off, so Kesler pins him with his whole body.

Ladd realizes two things: one, Kesler has a boner; and two, he's not the only one. He looks at Kesler's face, and from his incredibly stupid expression, he's probably just noticed the same things.

He's not sure where the urge comes from, but suddenly he wants to see if he can make Kesler make an even dumber face. Rolling his hips up so their dicks brush against each other does the job nicely, especially if he doesn't think about how his own face probably looks just as dumb.

"Oh yeah?" says Kesler, narrowing his eyes. Ladd has just enough time to think what a grade three thing that is to say before, holy shit, that's Kesler's tongue in his mouth.

But no way is he going to let that Vancouver douchebag stay in control. Ladd pushes off the wall as hard as he can and shoves Kesler's back against it, then crushes their mouths together, biting as much as kissing.

Then there's a sound -- crunching leaves instead of wet lips -- and they both react, jumping to attention. But instead of separating like the trained professionals they are, their heads collide so hard that Ladd sees stars before toppling onto his ass. Kesler vanishes as the source of the noise approaches.

"Wuff," it says. Ladd sits up. It's a dumb-looking dog, a pug, wearing a harness with no leash. " _Wuff,_ " it says again, more insistently, so he pets it, bemused. It snuffles happily.

"Thor! Thor, where'd you run off to?" A fiftyish woman races around the corner, holding a leash. "There you are! Leave the nice young man alone," she says, grabbing the pug's harness and reattaching it to the leash. She looks at Ladd then, critically. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm good," he says. He feels like his life has turned inside out, but what the hell? "Just, you know -- Tuesday."

"Fuck Tuesdays," she agrees. "Come on, Thor."

Ladd watches them go. After a minute, he heads out of the alley towards the checkpoint. John pulls up in the taxi van almost immediately.

"You look like hell," he says, squinting at him in the rearview mirror. "Do you need to see Doc?"

"Nah, I'll be fine." He leans his head against the cold window while John drives slowly around the neighborhood.

"Nice job, Ladd," Duncs says over the radio.

"Thanks," he says.

"He says 'thanks,'" John reports. "The only input hookup is up here, bud," he says over his shoulder.

"Oh, right." That makes sense.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little shook up."

John looks like he's about to argue, but then Kaner's voice breaks in. "Hey, bro, we're on our way out."

"Heading your way," John says.

In a few minutes, they're pulling up in front of the Rainforest Café again. Kaner is laughing at something Sharpy is saying, and Ladd can't see Sopes' face at all -- he's got an enormous stuffed alligator in his arms.

"Can we keep it? Can we, can we?" Kaner asks as soon as he has the door open, giggling his way into the seat behind Ladd's.

"Only if it's housetrained," Ladd says.

"The sales clerk talked me into it," Sopes says sheepishly. "I think my kids'll like it!" He tosses the alligator in next to Kaner, then climbs in after it.

"It's cute," Ladd says, examining its plastic teeth. Then he sneezes hard, barely managing to turn his face into his sleeve first.

"Bless you," Sharpy says, dropping into the seat next to him just in time for John to throw the taxi into drive.

Ladd opens his mouth to thank him, but he's interrupted by another sneeze. "I think I'm -- _achoo!_ \-- I think I'm allergic to your -- _achoo!_ "

Kaner's practically hysterical. "You're allergic to alligators! That sucks, bud."

"Oh my god." Sopes is laughing now too, and Ladd feels like he's going to sneeze his damn brains out. "John, do you have a bungee cord in here?"

"Please, strap me to the -- _achoo!_ \-- roof," Ladd begs.

"Nope," John says. "Benadryl, maybe? The first aid kit should be under your seat, Sharpy."

Sharpy digs under the seat and pulls out the kit. "Here, Laddy, take some of this."

Between sneezes, he manages to get the bottle of Benadryl open and take a swig. "Thanks, sharpy."

"And some Kleenex."

"I think I'll just use it as a mask," Ladd says. He pinches the wad of tissues over his nose, then sneezes again.

"If it's going to kill Ladd, we can get rid of it," Sopes says.

"I'm fine," Ladd insists. "I just -- _achoo!_ \-- need to wait for the Benadryl to kick in."

They get back to headquarters not a moment too soon, and Ladd practically runs up the stairs to the bathroom. Maybe steam will clear his nose out. What the hell was in that damn alligator?

In the shower, he blows his nose about a thousand times and lets the hot water beat down on his back for a while, luxuriating in it, before soaping up and getting the grime off. For some reason, he keeps touching his black eye and bruised jaw, like worrying at a sore tooth. And he's hard from it. Again.

It's not like he's never realized he's into pain and stuff. Hell, that's practically more normal than not, with the company he keeps. But _Kesler?_ That kink is definitely not okay.

Ladd glares down at his dick, but it doesn't get the message. He considers refusing to jerk off until something more acceptable gives him a boner, but turning the shower cold would make his sore muscles feel even worse, and he got his fill of trying to concentrate on work with a boner when he was a fucking teenager.

Squirting some conditioner into his hand, he resolutely focuses on any other jerk-off image he can think of. That kid from the Disneyland family with the pretty mouth, on his knees. The guy the Swedes know in New York, maybe, the one who makes even Sharpy look worse in comparison: now there's a guy who could beat the shit out of somebody without even messing up his perfect hair. Ladd pretends the dashing New York kingpin is the one who hit him and made out with him in the alley for a while. It's a great fantasy, it's totally working for him --

\-- And then Kesler's stupid face pops up behind his eyelids, like one of those "when you see it, you'll shit bricks" images Kaner thinks are the height of comedy, and he comes so hard his legs feel like jelly. Well, fuck. Ladd rinses off and presses his forehead against the tiled wall, like maybe the stupid will seep out of him if he just stays there long enough.

"Are you ever coming out of there?" someone yells, pounding on the door.

"Fuck you," Ladd yells back.

"That's the problem!" That's definitely Kaner's voice.

"Wait, what?" Curiosity piqued, Ladd turns off the shower, grabs a towel and wraps it around his hips, then opens the door. "The hell?"

"Finally," Kaner huffs. He's still in his outfit from earlier, and his hair has dried into a helmet. "I'm not getting laid until I wash this crap out of my hair." He starts to strip.

Ladd snorts. "So Tazer does have some taste."

Kaner throws his awful Hawaiian shirt at him. "Tazer's taste is ex-fucking-quisite."

"Then why's he dating you?" Ladd ducks out the door just in time for Kaner's jeans to hit that instead of his head.

Sharpy's lounging against the opposite wall, laughing. "Man, having to be seen in public with him in that getup was worth it for the look on Tazer's face when we got back," he tells Ladd. "Fucking priceless. Kaner was right about those alcoholic milkshakes, too. And hey, you broke somebody's nose! It was a pretty good night, eh?"

"Yeah," Ladd says. "Pretty good night."

Sharpy squints at him. "Are you an echo chamber or just tired?"

"Just tired," Ladd repeats. Then he realizes that isn't exactly a comforting response. "Long day, you know," he adds.

"Get some sleep," Sharpy says, clapping him on the back. "I'm off to short-sheet Kaner's bed before he finishes decontaminating."

"Godspeed," Ladd says.

***

The next morning, Ladd is dipping pieces of cinnamon Pop-Tart in his coffee and contemplating a workout when he catches Sharpy and Burish sneaking into the armory. He doesn't mean to; he just looks up and there they are, looking as guilty as two kids with their hands in the cookie jar.

"Oh, it's you," Sharpy says, relaxing.

"What are you doing?"

"Pranking Kaner. Fucking Tazer checked the bed before they got in," Burish says, shaking his head. "Kids today."

Sharpy opens his briefcase, revealing three bananas and two brightly-colored water guns. "Kaner's been slacking on checking his backup heat," he says.

"What are you going to do with the real guns?" Ladd asks, following them into the armory.

Sharpy breaks into Kaner's locker with an expert flick of the wrist. "Give 'em to Turco. He'll take care of them and return them when Li'l Peekaboo is good and ready." Burish takes Kaner's gun case -- a Muppet Babies lunchbox Sharpy gave him as a joke a year ago -- and puts the guns on the bench. Like a well-oiled machine, Sharpy makes the switch and Burish slips the real guns into Turco's to-repair bin.

"Remind me never to cross you," Ladd says.

"Did you need reminding?" Sharpy flashes him a charming smile.

Back in the dining room, Ladd says, "So tell me what happened last night. My part of it was fucking surreal, but all I know about yours is that somebody talked Sopes into buying an alligator made entirely of mold and pollen."

Sharpy snorts. "Yeah, that's it. Mold, pollen, and asbestos. Hey, thanks," he says to Burish, saluting him with his fresh cup of coffee. "It went well, overall. Sopes had to buy the alligator because he was spending so much time in the stuffed animal section planting our bugs and disabling theirs, but he got away with it cold. Kaner and I were distracting enough that I don't think the refs remember any of the Vancouver boys' demands."

"Awesome," Ladd says.

"Of course, they're trying again today," Sharpy says. He takes a long sip of his coffee. "You up for a repeat performance?"

Ladd chokes on a bite of Pop-Tart, but obviously Sharpy doesn't know anything about... things that didn't happen. He coughs. "Yeah, sure."

Burish looks at him sideways. "Got an alligator in your throat?"

"They're pesky little assholes."

***

The next time Ladd gets a note, a week and a half later, he ends up in the briefing room with Steeger, Duncs, and Seabs. Q comes in from his office with a stack of papers and a reusable shopping bag from Target.

"Get any good bargains?" Duncs asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Not as good as the ones you're going to get," Q says.

"Uh-oh," Ladd says. That's Q's "I'm about to make you do something miserable, and that's hilarious" face, he's pretty sure.

Q starts unpacking the bag: a 2-liter of Mountain Dew, two cans of Pringles, one of those gadgets for playing iPods through the car stereo... "You're sending us on a road trip?" Seabs blurts out.

"Good guess," Q tells him. "We might have found a loophole in the tariffs the Vancouver boys impose on our transports." He smacks Seabs' hand away from the Pringles. "This should just be a one-time deal. If it works, we can send less-specialized personnel in the future."

"So where are we going?" Steeger asks.

"Calgary," Q says. "It looks like there's one customs checkpoint you can get through safely -- I called in a favor with Murzyn. He's willing to have his people look the other way for half the price the Vancouver boys charge, as long as you give them plausible deniability."

"Hence the college road trip food," Duncs says.

"Exactly. You're all young enough to pass for college students, and if you act like it superficially, people won't look too hard past the surface."

Duncs nods. "So what's our story? Sightseeing, visiting friends, scavenger hunt?"

"Scavenger hunt is a good one," Q says. "That gives you a good excuse to go all over the city, take pictures of anything you think looks out of place... Yeah, I like that."

"Cool," Duncs says. He looks pleased.

"Ladd, you know Calgary, right?" Q turns his sharp blue gaze on Ladd, who resists the urge to duck.

"Yes, sir," he says. "I spent some time there after college. Wet work."

Q nods. "You and anyone else who knows the area, come up with places you might want pictures of for a scavenger hunt. Duncs, see Nemo when we're done here, and he'll help you work out a route through Murzyn's territory. Seabs and Steeger, for now, I want you to work up convincing dossiers for your college student alter egos."

Seabs and Steeger high-five. "Awesome," Seabs says.

"You'll be heading out bright and early tomorrow morning, so I'd get started if I were you," Q continues. "Gentlemen?"

"Sir," they chorus.

"Get to work." And he stalks off.

***

By the time they reach Calgary's city limits, Ladd is about ready to shove Duncs' iPod down his throat. "Driver chooses the music, the rest of you shut your pieholes" is only fair if the driver isn't some kind of robot who only trades off for two hours out of ten for naps.

"If I hear 'Divide' one more time," he mutters to Steeger, but he can't think of a good threat. All his thoughts have been replaced by screams and dried potato products.

"Finish that thought any day now," Steeger says.

"I figured I'd leave it up to your imagination."

"No nudity in the car," Duncs says, apparently only catching the last sentence.

"You _wish_ there was nudity in your car," Steeger says.

"No, I don't, because I'm not _fourteen._ "

"Nah, you're old and married."

"I am not!" But Ladd sees him glance over at Seabs, asleep in the passenger seat.

Apparently Steeger does too. "Duncs, he wears your teeth around his neck. I'm pretty sure that means you're married."

"Your mom is married," Duncs counters.

"Yes, she is. Good one. Put on my iPod."

"Screw you."

"You have Seabs for that. Put on _his_ iPod."

"You do it. I'm driving." Ladd fist-pumps.

Steeger unbuckles his seat belt so he can reach the cords. "Try not to crash while I'm breaking the law, eh?"

"Maybe I'll test the brakes. John says this tank'll stop on a dime."

"No vehicular homicide," Ladd says.

"If you kept your mouth shut, I could get it reduced to manslaughter."

"Old Time Rock & Roll" blares out of the speakers. Seabs twitches in his sleep. "Like this song," he says blurrily.

"I know you do," says Duncs.

They drive along without fighting for a while longer, and then one of the California girls' voices breaks into the music. "Hey, guys? Wait, I mean -- headquarters to minivan?"

"This is minivan, come in," Duncs replies.

"So, we got a report from the guys out west that Vancouver knows where you're going," she says. She's the one whose slang Stals keeps picking up, Ladd thinks.

"You're kidding."

"God, I wish. No, they're sending some guys to Calgary to keep an eye on you."

"Is this going to interfere with the pickup?" Duncs asks.

"Ugh, I could just stab myself in the face. Yeah, it might. We're trying to spread them out with as many false reports as we can, but it's too late to pull you out, so just do your best, okay? Bye!"

"10-4, minivan out," Duncs says.

"Well, fuck," Seabs says, running his fingers through his hair. "This could get exciting."

"I hate exciting," Steeger grumbles.

"Okay, new plan," Duncs says. "Steeger, we'll send you up high someplace with guns and cameras."

"Sounds good." He pets his bag.

"Seabs and I will monitor the radios," Duncs continues, "and Ladd --"

"Walk the perimeter?" Ladd suggests.

"Yeah, that works. Just keep an eye out, though -- don't go looking for trouble."

"Can do."

"And pass me a Gatorade."

"Ooh, give me one too," Seabs says. "And some Pringles."

Steeger digs in the cooler, then dumps the whole pile in Seabs' lap. "Where do you _put_ it all?" he demands. "Hollow leg?"

"His stomach is actually an interdimensional portal," Duncs says, which sounds pretty reasonable to Ladd.

***

"Here we are," Duncs says. "You two, out."

"What's my story again?" Steeger asks.

"You're taking pictures from up there for a scavenger hunt." Duncs points at the Suncor Energy Centre, the tallest building in Canada west of Toronto. "Ladd, you're looking for batteries for the car alarm keychain."

"Got it." He has three different tiny batteries in his pants pocket, so he has an excuse to keep going from store to store. "Where will you losers be?"

"The Olympic Plaza parking lot," Seabs says. "We get to wait for the delivery." He wiggles his eyebrows, as if there were any doubt about their other plans.

"Try not to look too creepy," Steeger advises them.

"Thanks," Duncs says. "Skedaddle."

Ladd hops out of the minivan and stretches. His back cracks in six separate places. It feels amazing. "Good luck with your photography," he tells Steeger.

"Thanks. Good luck on your battery quest." He heads off, swinging his digital camera by the strap.

The first convenience store Ladd tries, near the edge of where they suspect the Vancouver family's influence begins, has only AA batteries. Nobody in there looks too familiar, so he moves on. It's a nice afternoon for a walk, a little brisk, so he's happy to take his time. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and wanders east. A few times, he thinks maybe he's being watched, but nothing too serious.

The second store has two of the three batteries, and the clerk sitting on a stool flirting with the pharmacist looks at him way too long. Bingo. Ladd buys a Coke with real sugar -- one thing Chicago can't do better than Canada -- and winks at the clerk.

He's barely gone a block when he hears footsteps behind him, first faster than his, catching up, then matching his stride. The adrenaline spike makes him smile. He savors it for a moment. After another few steps, he turns on his heel and snaps, "Are you following me?"

It's Kesler. Of course it is. "I was," Kesler says, after the longest moment of Ladd's life. "But now you're going to follow me."

He should really argue. This isn't going anywhere good. But what comes out of his mouth is, "Okay."

Kesler actually smiles at him, showing teeth, before heading down an alley. Ladd's about to say something snide about being able to find a dark alley himself when Kesler steps in front of a beige back door in the brick and pries it open with his fingertips. Instead, he opts for, "Can't afford doorknobs out here?"

"We don't want just anybody knowing it works," Kesler says smugly, and he drags Ladd inside by the wrist. It's pitch dark. Ladd hears another door open, and Kesler shoves him through it. His back hits something that clatters to the floor just as Kesler turns on the lights and slams the door behind them.

"A broom closet?" Ladd asks. "Seriously?"

"Got a better idea?" Kesler retorts. He moves like he's going to kick, but Ladd jumps out of the way and picks up one of the brooms he knocked into. "Oh, good one. You think we're going to sword fight?"

"Lightsaber duel, and you're in charge of the sound effects," Ladd says, and lands a solid whack on Kesler's ankle.

Kesler crashes to the floor in a pile of cleaning supplies, which Ladd was expecting, and drags him down to his level by his belt loops, which he wasn't. He's startled enough that when Kesler straddles his thigh and rubs against him, it takes him a moment to realize the asshole is making lightsaber noises.

"Oh, no way," Ladd says. He gets a knee in Kesler's gut and flips them over to slam him into the concrete floor. For a moment, all he wants to do is stare. Kesler's nose is still swollen, and he's blushing, and he looks good. Then he starts to smile again, so Ladd smacks it off his face and grinds their hips together hard.

Kesler groans and pulls Ladd's head down. He's expecting a kiss, but instead Kesler bites his neck. None of this should be hot; apparently his dick didn't get that memo, though, and it's all he can do not to come right then.

He yanks at the collar of Kesler's shirt and tries the biting thing on him, tasting salt, feeling Kesler's muscles twitch under his lips. When Kesler grabs his ass in both hands, the friction is amazing, almost painful, and way too soon, he's coming with Kesler's tongue in his mouth and Kesler's blood under his nails and Kesler's jizz on his pants.

***

"You really can't sleep here."

Ladd grumbles and tries to squirm away from the foot nudging his stomach.

"No, seriously. If you stay here, you're dead."

And then he remembers where he is. "Jesus Christ."

"Yeah, exactly," Kesler says. He shoves a bundle into Ladd's hands once he's on his feet. "Here, put these on. Got 'em from one of the bartenders."

They must be in the back of one of the Vancouver family's restaurants. Well, that explains that. Ladd feels a little weird about wearing some other guy's sweatpants, but they fit and aren't come-stained, which is more than he'd hoped for. "Uh," he says. "Thanks, I guess."

"Don't mention it. Go out through the dining room, and see if you can get a beer spilled on you. It'll look better for your friends." Kesler isn't looking at him. "This never happened."

"Okay," Ladd says, but he can't resist pinching Kesler's ass on the way out of the broom closet. His little yelp is very satisfying; it puts a spring in Ladd's step that makes it easy to sway drunkenly into a waitress with a whole tray of drinks.

"Oh no! I'm so sorry, sir!" she says, mopping his shirt with a handful of napkins.

"No, _I'm_ sorry," he says thickly. "You're so beautiful. I mean it. _Beautiful._ " He presses a handful of bills into her hand, too carefully. "Here. Money for a beautiful lady. I gotta go now. I love you." And he waltzes out into the street.

He's still whistling tunelessly when Duncs drives up in the minivan. "Somebody found trouble," Seabs says, looking him up and down. "What happened to you?"

"You said it," Ladd says, opening the back door. "I found trouble."

Steeger is already in there. "Where'd you get the pants?" he asks.

"...Trouble," Ladd says. He buckles his seat belt and avoids Steeger's eyes.

"Uh-huh," Duncs says. "Well. Let's pretend that made sense, and we'll go to the motel and go swimming."

"Awesome."

***

It's probably three or four in the morning when Steeger rolls over onto his side to face Ladd and tries again. "Laddy," he says into the darkness. "What happened?"

Ladd stares up at the ceiling. "I borrowed the pants from a bartender," he says slowly. "Then I got spilled on on my way out."

"So why did you need new pants _before_ you got spilled on?"

God, he really doesn't want to lie to Steeger. "I, uh... I sort of..."

"Came in them like a teenager?"

Ladd chokes. "What? How --"

"I saw the hickeys in the pool," Steeger said, "and you had that 'I got laid' look."

"Oh. Well. Yeah. I did jizz in my pants," Ladd admits. "I wasn't really... planning to run into anybody."

Steeger snickers. "What, you didn't have 'old flame's pants' on our list of Calgary souvenirs to collect? Short-sighted of you."

"Well, you know, I didn't want to assume anything." That much is true, at least.

"That's good," Steeger says. "Gotta play it cool." He turns over onto his back. "So, you think you're going to see them again?"

"I don't know. It's complicated."

"Ohhh, it's _complicated._ God knows none of us do complicated well, what with the whole 'organized crime cartel secretly running half the Midwest' thing."

"You know, I can hear your eyes rolling," Ladd says, trying not to laugh. "That can't be healthy."

"Yeah, you're so concerned for my health. I wouldn't have to roll my eyes at you if you weren't such a loser."

"Oh, I'm a loser? Which one of us is getting laid?"

He really should have expected that pillow to the face.

***

When they get to the border crossing, Ladd can tell right away that something is wrong. The shiny black SUV with British Columbia plates is his first clue, parked illegally right by the front door; the deer-in-the-headlights look on Murzyn's face confirms it. He's willing to bet the goon next to him has a gun pointed at his kidneys, and the red face and bug eyes point to a tendency to shoot first, let someone with a bigger vocabulary ask questions later.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Murzyn says, remarkably steadily. "Thank you for visiting Canada. How can I help you?"

"We're heading home to Chicago," Steeger says. "I understand this is where we get our luggage inspected?"

"It is," he says. "Mr. Torres will be assisting me with that today." He gives Steeger a pointed look.

"That's fine," Steeger says. "Just let me know what I can do to help."

"This way, _gentlemen,_ " Torres says. He leads the four of them, carrying their bags, to the conveyor belt. He keeps his hands in his coat pockets. "Put the bags on here. Extra fees may be incurred."

Ladd glances over at Murzyn, who mouths _I'm sorry_ , and shrugs, waving off the apology. It's clearly not his fault: an informant would have rated someone gentler than Torres. They'll just have to wait and see.

"Five thousand should cover it," Torres says finally. "American dollars."

Seabs' eyebrows jump towards his hairline, but, thank God, he doesn't say anything. That's ten times the fee they were supposed to pay.

"All right," Duncs says. He digs in his pocket and pulls out a thick roll of bills, then counts them out slowly.

Torres' eyes gleam. $5000 is five times what they would ordinarily pay at a Vancouver-run crossing, even, but if they argue, they'll get border patrol a lot more intimidating than an old friend of Q's on their backs. God _damn_ it. They're between a rock and a hard place, all right.

"Okay, we're not stupid, eh?" Duncs says. "You get a thousand for each bag you give back."

Torres looks at him, then back at the bags, then at Duncs again. "I'm not stupid either," he says. "We're gonna use two of your guys in the middle. I'll give him the bag --" he points at Steeger -- "and you give him the cash --" he points at Seabs -- "then he gives me the cash, and he gives you the bag."

"Okay," Duncs says. He glances at Ladd, then counts out ten $100 bills. "Ready?"

"Ready," Torres says. He picks up one of their bags. "On three. One... two... three."

Ladd watches, thrumming with nerves, as the trade goes off without a hitch four times. When Torres hands Steeger the last bag, then grabs him by the throat and holds a gun to his head, it feels almost inevitable.

Murzyn curses quietly behind him. Ladd dives for the bags, praying one is Steeger's. The second one he grabs is, and the loaded handgun is right where he saw Steeger put it, in the zippered end pocket. Guns aren't exactly his specialty, but he's pretty sure he can figure out which end to point at Torres.

"Let's not do anything too hasty, guys," Duncs says. He holds both hands out, palms up. "Torres, what's the problem here?"

"The price just went up," Torres says. He nudges the gun under Steeger's jaw. "The rest of the money in your pocket, or I blow your friend's head off. Border security's a hell of a thing these days."

"All right," Duncs says. "Murzyn, come over here. I'll give you the money, and you can give it to your -- _friend_ , Torres."

Murzyn steps around the conveyor belt; Ladd keeps the gun trained on Torres' chest while he makes his way over to Duncs. Seabs is moving towards Torres and Steeger. Ladd tries to convey that he should stay where he is with his eyebrows, but it's not working.

"Here you go." Duncs turns out his pockets and hands the rest of the cash to Murzyn.

"Okay, Torres, I've got the money," Murzyn says.

Torres jerks his chin, gesturing him closer. "Put it in my pocket."

Murzyn tucks the money in Torres' front pocket, then steps back, darting a worried look towards Ladd.

"There you go," Duncs says. "Consider it a gift. Are we all set?"

"I don't know," Torres says. "I think that was too easy. Maybe you have more cash on you, eh?" He clicks off the safety, and Steeger's fists clench reflexively.

"Torres, you should rethink this," Ladd says, leveling the gun at him.

"Careful where you point that thing," Torres says. "It might go off."

And then suddenly Seabs is tackling Steeger, knocking him free of Torres, who swings the gun at Seabs' head. It connects with an awful crack, and Seabs drops. Steeger dives out from under him, snatches the gun out of Ladd's hands, and shoots.

"Go!" Murzyn shouts.

Ladd doesn't need to be told twice. He yanks Seabs over his shoulders in a fireman's carry and runs for the car. Duncs and Steeger can handle the bags.

They get Seabs lying down with his head in Duncs' lap and his knees practically touching the ceiling, and Steeger pulls out of the checkpoint and onto American soil at last. Ladd dials Doc on his cell phone. She'll talk them through it, and Seabs will be okay. He will. He has to.

***

Doc's not happy about having to diagnose somebody over the phone, and she's even less happy when they refuse to stop at a hospital on their way home.

"You said it sounded like a big goose-egg and maybe a minor concussion, right? So he's not going to die if we don't stop," Duncs argues.

"But I can't see his _brain,_ " Doc says. "I really don't like this."

"We're in North Da-fucking-kota," Duncs tells her. "There's nowhere to stop between here and Chicago but the Twin Cities, and Staubitz still has it out for us."

"Doc, I feel pretty okay," Seabs says. "I really don't want to go to a hospital."

Doc sighs. "But you'll let me examine you when you're home, right?"

"Absolutely!"

"And if you start feeling worse, you'll go to a hospital?"

"Totally." Seabs nods, even though they're not on video.

"You'd better keep an eye on him," Doc says when Ladd has her back off speaker. "Don't let him go off on his own."

"Do we have to wake him up every hour or something?" Ladd asks. "I mean, whoever's driving has to be awake anyway."

"Nah, that's a myth," Doc says. "If he stops making sense, or if he has a worse headache, anything like that, then worry, but he's allowed to sleep."

"Okay, cool. Thanks, Doc."

"Don't make me regret this."

The phone beeps in his ear. "She hung up on me," Ladd says, looking at it.

"She does that," Steeger says. "Who wants Burger King?"

***

When they can finally see the Chicago skyline again, Ladd radios headquarers. He's afraid he'll have to listen to people fight over who they have to talk to first, but it turns out the fight's already over.

"Okay, so, you're supposed to drive straight to Doc's so she can check Seabs out. Q will meet you there to debrief you with either Tazer or Sharpy."

"Awesome," Ladd says. "We'll be there in..."

"45 minutes," Steeger reads off the GPS.

"Bring pizza!" Seabs yells from the back, where he's sitting up under his own power again.

"I'll pass that along. HQ out."

They pull into the clinic's rear parking lot five minutes ahead of schedule, but Doc is in the doorway before they turn off the engine anyway. It's after hours, so she leads Seabs into one of the exam rooms and points the other three to the waiting room.

Q's sitting there with Tazer, reading an ancient People magazine. When he sees them, he puts it down and says "Boys, I am so sorry about what happened up there." Ladd is so surprised to hear him apologize that he sits down on the arm of the chair instead of the seat.

"All in a day's work, boss," Steeger says, drily.

"None of that was supposed to happen," Q says, ignoring him. "I'm kicking myself for trusting Murzyn. I won't make that mistake again."

"I got the money back," Steeger offers. "After I shot Torres." He digs the money out of one of his side pockets and hands it back to Q.

"Did you kill him?" Tazer asks.

"I think I just wounded him, but I didn't stick around to check."

"He's alive," Q says. "Less paperwork for us. Anyway, you'll all get double hazard pay for the week."

"Whoa," Ladd says. Double hazard? That's a big chunk of change. "Thanks, boss."

The doorbell rings, and Doc shouts, "That's the pizza! Somebody let them in!" from the exam room. Steeger runs for the door.

"There's got to be a better way to cross the border," Q mutters.

"Well, I think we've found the worst one," Duncs says.

"Got it," Steeger calls. "Pizza time!"

"Bring some in here," Doc shouts. Duncs grabs the top box off the stack in Steeger's arms and takes it in.

They eat contentedly for a while, and finally Doc, Duncs, and Seabs come out of the exam room. "He's fine," Doc says. "Neuros all check out, memory's good, the bump on his head's already shrinking." She pats him on the back with the hand not holding a slice of pizza.

"That's good to hear. Thank you, Doc," says Q. "Seabs, you're all getting double hazard pay for the week."

Seabs gulps down a mouthful. "Thanks, boss!"

"Tazer, you and Sharpy and Kaner are going out to Vivere tomorrow night, is that right? Dress up, smile, tip well, kiss a few babies?"

"That's the plan," Tazer agrees.

"Why don't you bring these guys along?" Q waves his pizza to indicate the four of them.

"Fine with me," Tazer says.

"We actually have plans tomorrow night," Duncs says apologetically. "The Sausage, Murder, & Ghosts Tour."

Q shivers. "You have fun with that, then. Steeger? Ladd?"

"Sure, I'd love to," Ladd says. He doesn't mind dressing up, and a relaxing night out sounds pretty nice.

"I have a prior engagement," Steeger says, which probably means a World of Warcraft raid. "Appreciate the offer, though."

"Reservation for four, then," Tazer says. "I'll get right on it."

"I really am sorry," Q says. "We'll figure out something else to do for the next shipment."

"I'll make this one last," Doc says, coming over from the supply closet.

"No, don't worry," Tazer says. "If you need medicines, you use them. That's the whole point, eh? We'll get it sorted out."

***

"Not bad," Kaner says, giving Ladd a cheerfully sleazy once-over. "The expensive suit brings out the smug in your eyes."

"Who's smug?" Ladd pulls Sharpy's chair out, then sits down next to him.

"You, smartass! So did you kick some ass or get some?" Kaner leans across the table conspiratorially. "Those are the only times you get that look, you kinky motherfucker."

His tone is friendly, but the words still make Ladd freeze for a moment. Kaner doesn't know about anything, does he? "Ha ha, very funny," he manages.

Sharpy gives him a weird look, then turns to Kaner. "Hey, nothing wrong with a man who enjoys his work! Is there, Tazer?"

Tazer sits down across from Sharpy. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, I'm just chirping Babyface here for throwing stones from a glass dungeon," Sharpy says cheerfully. "Oh, thank you!" he says to the busboy filling his water glass. "How long have you lived in Chicago?"

"All my life, sir," he says. "And -- I wanted to thank you."

"Oh yeah?" Sharpy turns in his chair to face him, smiling. "What for?"

"You've done so much," the kid says earnestly, "all of you. Like, we don't worry about gangs shooting up the neighborhood, or the bank taking our house. And you kissed my little sister on the cheek!"

Sharpy laughs. "She liked that, huh? She'll have to beat 'em off with a stick when she grows up."

"So I just wanted to say -- thanks."

"You're welcome! That's what we love to hear." He shakes his hand. "If you ever need anything, you know who to come to."

"That was cute," Ladd says when the busboy is on his way.

"Won't be the last time tonight," Tazer says. "We get a lot of that." He looks pleased, for him.

"Yeah, we get credit for the dirty work you do," Sharpy says, slapping Ladd on the back.

"Hey, we do the dirty work sometimes," Kaner says. "Like that time you swapped my guns out!"

In between the waiter taking their order and thanking them for smuggling the meds that keep his mother alive, a bunch of other wait staff and busboys coming up to meet them, and a few families of diners bringing their actual babies for them to literally kiss, Ladd gets the story out of them. It takes a long time, because not only do other people interrupt them, they interrupt each other.

They were meeting up with someone who had something, but they can't agree on who it was or what they were supposed to get. It was definitely somebody important ("The ambassador!" "No, dipshit, it was Taylor Swift." "Maybe in your wet dreams. It was George Clooney --" "That's _your_ wet dreams!") and something cool ("The load of diamonds. Or wait, was it a key?" "It was definitely a flash drive." "The flash drive _was_ a key." "Wasn't it a key to a briefcase full of diamonds?" "That's the plot to Die Another Day." "So does that make you Halle Berry?" "Damn right."), whatever the details are.

Anyway, they'd made the connection, but someone ("Detroit!" "No, they were young guys, remember? It was Boston.") sent a goon in to get it away from them. He disarmed them, but ignored Kaner's ridiculous lunchbox ("Because I'm a master of stealth." "Because who would be stupid enough to carry guns in that thing?" "Because they were too dumb to find it. I _told_ you it was Boston."), so he reached in blind and pulled a banana on one of the guys.

"It's pretty hard to see through mashed banana in your eyes," Kaner says, leaning back in his chair. "Oh my god, you're so cute! No, no, fingers aren't for biting, cutie." He offers the baby girl his pocket square instead, which she happily gums away at.

"And once the guy was blinded," Sharpy continues, "he pulled out one of the Super Soakers and pressed it into his back."

"Then he gave us our guns back," Tazer finishes.

Ladd stares at them. "You guys are nuts," he says, starting to laugh. He has no idea how much, if any, of that was true.

"That's what they tell me," Kaner agrees. "Do you want dessert? I want dessert."

Now, Ladd thinks over tiramisu, he understands why they're so good at their jobs. Sharpy's distractingly good-looking, Tazer's distractingly intense, and Kaner's distractingly... distracting, and all together they're like a human shell game. He's pretty sure they could have robbed him blind, stolen everything from his shoes to his fillings, while they went back and forth over that story.

***

The fifteenth floor of this building is definitely not big enough to fit half the Chicago outfit comfortably, but here they all are anyway. Rooney and Walsh have decided to bring the Vancouver family out to Chicago for talks. Tazer wanted to bring as many warm bodies as possible, but Luongo insists on it being just two on two: Luongo and Schneider, Tazer and whoever he chooses. He picks Burish.

"So what are the rest of us supposed to do?" Kaner asks. His face is about an inch from Tazer's.

"I don't fucking know," Tazer says. "This wasn't my idea. Just go do something, okay?"

"Yes, _sir._ " Kaner storms off.

"I hear there's a restaurant on the seventh floor," Sharpy tells Tazer. "I'll try to get him there, okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Tazer says. He's clenching his teeth. "Fucking Luongo."

"Let's go in," Burish says. He leads Tazer in, one hand between his shoulder blades.

Ladd glances at Sharpy. "I think I need some air," he says. No way does he want to be around Kaner when someone's separating him from Tazer.

"I don't blame you," Sharpy says. "Radio if you need anything."

"Same to you." He heads in the opposite direction from where Kaner went. He's pretty sure there's a stairwell that way too. When he finds it, the air is thick with the smell of paint; the coat of white on the walls and railings is obviously fresh. Well, it's better than some other smells he can think of. Ladd shrugs and starts jogging up the stairs.

Eight flights is a pretty good workout, he thinks as he reaches the roof. The door is marked NO ACCESS, but it isn't locked or alarmed, so he opens it. Up here, the city looks like a toy, like the Christmas scenes his aunt has been buying piece by piece since before he was born. No snow yet, though; it's only November. Plenty of time for that.

Ladd sticks a convenient branch, probably blown up here by one of the big windstorms, in the door so it won't blow shut behind him. He doubts it'll lock, but with the mood downstairs, he really doesn't want to risk getting stuck. Tazer would go nuclear, and that's only funny from far, far away.

He wanders over to the edge of the roof and looks down. There's nothing going on that he can see, just pigeons jostling for space on ledges, a few flags in Chicago colors in the windows across the way, a cupcake truck trundling down the street... Then a noise makes him stop and take notice. It sounds like... footsteps, maybe? Footsteps and grunting.

Leaning over the edge a little further, Ladd realizes what he's hearing. Fucking Kesler is _scaling the building,_ climbing the windows like it's a totally reasonable thing to do.

Ladd moves back a few steps. Has Kesler seen him yet? Did he come up here to find him? And why is that thought making him want to smile? This is one of the chief assholes of the Vancouver crowd, here, not some Tiger Beat heartthrob.

Not that he's ever read Tiger Beat.

Well, not _recently._

Just when he's starting to consider offering Kesler a hand, even if it would be weirdly reminiscent of The Princess Bride, Kesler's head pops over the edge, followed by one arm, followed by the rest of him, flopping over the wall like an acrobatic beached whale.

"Oh, hi," Kesler says between gasps. "Fancy meeting you here."

"I can't believe this," Ladd says. "What are you doing here?"

Kesler shrugs. "Got bored," he says.

"So you climbed a building? We're twenty-two stories up, and it's still light out!" Ladd waves one arm, trying to encompass the magnitude of the city around them, the sunset, the fat pigeons, all of it.

"I didn't climb the _whole_ building," Kesler says. "I just climbed out the window."

"Of the fifteenth floor."

"Whatever, it wasn't hard. Do you want to fight or what?"

Ladd looks at him. He has a weirdly vulnerable look on his face, like he's just said something with a lot more feelings involved than _do you want to fight or what_. "Yeah, I do."

"Good." Kesler throws himself at him, fists swinging. He clocks Ladd a good one in the mouth; Ladd spits blood at him, and they keep going. At one point, Ladd manages to wrench both of Kesler's arms behind his back, pulling his shoulders almost out of their sockets. He likes the groan that draws out of him, and the way it bares the long line of his throat. Dragging his teeth over Kesler's throat gets him even more groans.

Then he twists out of Ladd's hold and throws him against the low wall, with enough force that he bends backwards over it. Ladd thinks for a moment that they've finally gone too far, and his family will have to scrape what's left of him off Wabash Avenue with a putty knife. "Oh, shit," he says, scrabbling at the cement for purchase.

Kesler laughs. "What, did you think I was going to throw you off the roof?" He grabs Ladd's hips in his hands where his jeans are sliding down, holding him gently in place.

"Maybe," Ladd says. "How should I know?"

"I'm not going to throw you off the roof," Kesler says. He drops down to his knees and looks up at him. "At least not yet," he amends, then yanks Ladd's pants down to his ankles.

"What, you're going to blow me and _then_ throw me off the roof?" Ladd pushes himself up on his elbows, just in time to watch Kesler's lips slide all the way up his dick and then back down. God, does the bastard ever look good with a cock in his mouth.

Kesler pulls off. "Or you might throw _me_ off the roof," he says. "Live in the moment, wouldja, asshole?" He does -- something that feels incredibly good.

"Do that again and I'll consider it," he says, and lets his head fall back. Kesler sucks cock like he'd rather be doing that than anything else in the world, so Ladd figures he owes him at least close to that level of concentration. His peripheral vision dwindles until there's nothing but Kesler and his incredible mouth.

"Pull off," Ladd says. He feels like a prince among men for his consideration, until Kesler hums disagreement. That pushes him over the edge -- of orgasm, not the building, thank heaven -- and he comes in Kesler's mouth. He doesn't mean to watch his throat move as he swallows, but, well, it happens.

"Uh, thanks," he says, once he can make his mouth work again.

"My pleasure," Kesler says, then laughs. He's still on his knees. It's a good look for him.

Ladd pulls his pants up, leaving the fly undone, and slides down to sit against the wall. "If you give me a couple minutes, I can reciprocate," he says. He looks up at the pale orange sky instead of at Kesler's face.

After a moment, Kesler says, "Yeah, okay, I have time." He scoots around and sits next to Ladd. They're close enough that they could hold hands if they wanted to, which Ladd definitely doesn't. He's just noticing.

"Is that a star or an airplane?" Kesler asks.

"An airplane," Ladd says without looking. "There's too much light pollution here for stars. Take off your pants."

"Oh," Kesler says. "Okay." He slides his khakis down his narrow hips and lies down flat on his back.

"What, too lazy to get up?" Ladd asks, taking in the wiry muscles of his thighs. Not bad.

"Nah, you're just better-looking from down here." Kesler folds his arms behind his head and grins. "Now your caveman forehead doesn't overshadow your baby blues."

Ladd gapes. "Caveman forehead? Well, at least it's natural. You make your hair do that on _purpose._ "

"My hair is adorable," Kesler informs him.

Ladd snorts, and decides to stifle further discussion by getting down to business. Maybe Kesler will shut up if he's getting a blowjob. He's got a pretty nice dick, flushed and thick and dripping a little already; Ladd licks his hand and gets a rhythm going that way first, then sucks the head into his mouth.

"Oh, yeah," Kesler says, groaning. "Just like that, yeah, come on."

Okay, maybe this won't work so well as a shutting-up measure. Oh well -- if there's one thing Ladd can do, it's take direction.

"Yeah, yeah, oh, yeah," Kesler is saying. "You're so good, yeah, suck me like that. Don't stop. God, your mouth is fantastic. Harder, yeah, that's --" Ladd wonders if he ever stops to breathe. It seems like it should be annoying, this constant flow of mostly-meaningless words, but actually he's kind of enjoying it. He sure doesn't need to wonder if he's doing a good job, anyway.

"Fuck, yeah, look at me, _look at me,_ " Kesler says. Ladd glances up at his face, and Kesler is staring at him, looking almost scared, when his face breaks into a grin and his eyes close again. "Yeah, oh, fuck, I'm gonna come, close your pretty eyes, oh, Ladd --" His hand gropes at the side of Ladd's face.

He's about to pull off when his competitive side reminds him that Kesler swallowed, so he decides he might as well keep going. It's not that bad. Kesler grabs him by the collar and hauls him up for a kiss, apparently not minding the taste of his own jizz all over Ladd's mouth. Or enjoying it.

Ladd's not sure how long they've been lying there making out, pressed together like teenagers, but when Kesler suddenly says, "Oh, fuck, it's late," and jumps to his feet, he does feel a little creaky. "I have to go," Kesler says. "I should be -- I have to get out of here."

"Yeah," Ladd says. "Uh. Are you --"

"Oh, we'll see each other again." Kesler jumps down to the nearest fire escape and disappears from sight.

***

Everybody's sort of on edge after that. The meeting went well, according to Tazer, but his eyes are doing that glowing-coals thing. He never looks quite this crazy when nothing is wrong.

Ladd leans back in his chair. Tazer and Kaner are in the briefing room, and the Swedes, and the photographer -- the best comparison for her is probably Weegee, and they call her Flash, but Ladd likes to think of her as Peter Parker. Maybe she's not an actual superhero, but she does get pretty fantastic shots of the good things they do.

"Okay," Q says. "Hammer, Stals, Kruger, you're all set to head out to Detroit for a Swedish family reunion with Lidström?"

"Swedish _Super Classico,_ " Stals corrects him.

"Call it whatever you want, as long as you go."

"Swedish Super Classico," Stals repeats. "Much better name. We'll be there." Ladd hides a smile; he's pretty sure Stals picked up that phrase from hanging out with that one radio operator from California.

"Good. Now, Flash, you're back from Canada -- did you get anything good?" Q asks the photographer.

"He's been showing up in all of my pictures," the photographer says. "All of them!"

Tazer looks confused. "I thought you were taking pictures of all the Vancouver boys."

"That's what I'm saying. Look!" Ladd leans over so he can see too. She spreads out a sheaf of printouts. "There he is... and there... and there... and there he is again!"

"Huh," Tazer says. It's true. Kesler is in every picture, poking his head into the foreground, wandering through the background, eating a slice of pizza, wearing a stupid hat. Ladd snickers.

"I can probably crop him out of most of them," the photographer says. "I just thought I should show you."

"Yeah, that's weird, all right," Tazer says. "As long as you can fix them, I guess it's no problem. Thanks."

"I never thought being the next Weegee would mean dealing with photobombers," she mutters.

***

"Excuse me, what are you doing in here?"

That's the new IT supervisor's voice -- what was it Seabs called her, Gremlin? -- and there's a note of fear in it. Ladd turns on his heel and heads back towards the computer room door. It's ajar -- good. He positions himself carefully where he can see inside.

The IT girl has her back to him, and there's a man at one of the banks of computers, and he has a gun on his hip. Shit. Ladd taps his radio and whispers, "Backup, computer room, now!"

"I don't know who you are or what you think you're doing, but you had best start explaining yourself," she says.

The man straightens up, giving her an incredulous look. His face snaps into place in Ladd's mind all of a sudden: Bieksa. Oh, that's not good at all. There are still no footsteps in the hallway, so it's up to him. He takes a deep breath.

"Move right!" Ladd yells, praying she'll move first and ask questions later. He runs into the room and tackles Bieksa, who goes down like a ton of bricks.

"Thanks," says the IT girl.

"What the fuck?" yells Bieksa. "Get off me!"

"Nah." She comes up from behind Ladd and takes the gun out of Bieksa's holster. "He's going to stay right there for a little bit, and I'm going to point this gun at your head."

"You wouldn't shoot me," Bieksa says confidently, but he's not struggling so hard under Ladd's hold.

In answer, she clicks off the safety. Bieksa freezes. "Wanna bet?" she asks cheerfully.

"I wouldn't take that bet," Ladd advises. Bieksa spits in his face. "Oh, now, hey," Ladd says, pretending his feelings are hurt, "is that any way to treat someone who's just trying to save you a little money?"

Behind him, he hears at least two sets of footsteps. "Hi, guys," the IT girl says. "We have a little problem here."

"Not for long," Bolly says. He puts the point of a knife against Bieksa's Adam's apple. "Sit up real slow," he directs. Ladd moves his knee off Bieksa's gut to allow this. "Good boy," Bolly says. "Fro?"

Frolik quickly zip-ties Bieksa's wrists together behind his back. "We've got this from here," he tells them, and he and Bolly drag their prisoner away.

"You've got something on your face," IT girl says, handing Ladd a tissue.

"Thanks." He wipes his cheek and grimaces. "What do you think he was doing?"

She's already bending over the computer Bieksa had touched. "He didn't even make it as far as hitting CTRL-ALT-DEL," she says, sounding disgusted.

***

"I hear Lu nearly had a nervous breakdown when he opened the package."

Tazer snorts. "He's weak. He probably started hyperventilating as soon as he saw Chicago on the postmark."

"Yeah, but it got way worse when he found Bieksa inside. Well, what was left of him," Turco amends.

"Good. The quicker we send him over the edge, the better the chances he'll turn the business over to someone who can't handle it yet."

"We should mail him feathers," Crow says from the floor. He's stretching in a position that makes Ladd wince just looking at it. "For no particular reason, just to keep him off balance."

"I like that," Tazer says. He's doing bicep curls now, and making some really weird faces. "Now, we've managed to narrow the possibilities for Luongo's replacement down to two. Guesses?"

"Schneider at the casino, yeah?" Kaner says from the treadmill.

"Yeah, but not the whole operation."

"Sedin, you think?" Soupy asks.

"There's one," Tazer agrees. "And?"

"Not Burrows," Ladd says.

"Raymond?" Turco suggests. "Nah, never mind. He's, like, twelve." Ladd hides a smile at the glare Tazer shoots him for that -- he's still a little sensitive about how young he is.

"Kesler?" Crow guesses.

"Got it." Tazer points at Crow. "Sedin or Kesler. So, obviously, add them both to the kill-on-sight lists."

"Sedin was already on mine," Soupy says. "Everybody knows you can't trust a ginger." Then he cracks up at his own joke.

Kaner laughs too. "Good one, Soupy. That's why I've been lying to you all this time."

"Oh yeah, bud? About what?" Soupy gets off the rowing machine so he can pretend to menace Kaner.

"See, you _think_ I'm this badass mobster --"

"Nobody thinks that," Tazer interrupts him.

"-- But actually, I'm the prime minister of Malaysia!"

There's a knock at the gym door; it's the charity supervisor. "You better start hitting the showers, or you're going to be late to the children's museum," Kyle says. She raises an eyebrow in the general direction of Kaner and Soupy's slap-fight, but doesn't say anything.

"What are we doing there?" Ladd asks her.

"Hand turkeys," she says. "Kids love those things."

"Thank you, we'll be ready soon," Tazer says. She rolls her eyes and leaves.

"November is such a weird time to have Thanksgiving," Crow says. "I'm still not used to it."

"It's nice to spread out the holidays a little, though," Turco says. "After all, this way we get to help the kids make construction paper jack-o'-lanterns _and_ hand turkeys." He laughs. "Arts and crafts, man, this is the weirdest gang I've ever been in."

"It works," Tazer says, spraying down the stationary bikes with Fantastik. "If it weren't such a good way to ensure the goodwill of the people of Chicago, we wouldn't do it."

Turco holds up his hands in surrender. "Hey, I'm not complaining! Art class was the best thing about grade school. And it's a lot easier when we're working with the city instead of against it."

"Damn right," Tazer says. "We're the best thing to happen to Chicago since the World's Fair. Do you know how much crime has gone down since we stepped in?"

"73%," Crow says.

"73%!" Tazer repeats. "And the foreclosure rate is way down."

"That happens when banks that try to foreclose on people get robbed," Ladd agrees.

"It's all part of improving the city," Tazer says doggedly. "So let's go make some fucking hand turkeys."

***

It's while Ladd's tracing a little girl's hand on brown paper that it occurs to him. He can never see Kesler again. Now that Tazer has named him as one of Luongo's possible replacements, he's a marked man.

"Um, excuse me, but could you please let my hand go?" the little girl asks politely. "I'm ready to use the scissors now."

"Oh, sorry. Of course," he says. She picks up the safety scissors and carefully cuts out her turkey shape. God, that hadn't even crossed his mind. It's over now, like it should have been before it started. If he sees Kesler, he has to kill him, or at least tell someone else where he is so _they_ can kill him.

"Hey, guy!" A little boy is waving his hand in Ladd's face. "Hey, guy, hey! Trace my hand, guy!"

"You have to put it down first," he points out.

"Okay, guy," the boy says. He puts his hand palm down on a sheet of bright green construction paper.

"Green turkey, huh?" he says conversationally, drawing a marker line around each finger.

"Green is my _favorite color!_ " the kid yells happily. "Can I sing you my green song?"

"Only if you use your inside voice," Ladd says, and the kid breaks into a decent rendition of "It's Not Easy Being Green" as he glues green feathers and green glitter to his turkey.

Kesler lied, then. He said they'd see each other again, after that time on the roof, but they can't, not anymore. Fuck.

***

"You look like someone kicked your puppy," Burish says, putting an arm around Ladd's shoulders. "I didn't even think you _had_ a puppy."

"We could get you a puppy," Sharpy says. He puts his arm around Ladd's shoulders from the other side.

"Would you like a puppy?" Burish asks.

Ladd glances back and forth between them. "Did your biological clocks start ticking or something? Are you trying to be my father figures? Because I have Q for that."

"I will be your father figure, put your tiny hand in mine," Burish sings. Sharpy claps a hand over his mouth, freeing Ladd, who takes a big step back for personal space.

"Really, though," Sharpy says, wrestling for a better grip on Burish's face, "is there something we can do to make you look less tragic?"

"I'm fine," Ladd says. "Seriously, nothing's wrong."

Sharpy lets Burish go so they can exchange a meaningful look. "If you say so," Burish says doubtfully.

"I'm gonna go work out." Maybe the gym will be safe from these loons.

"Good idea," Sharpy says. "We'll keep you company!"

"Awesome," Ladd says. Well, at least if they're working out, they won't be trying to buy him pets. If he said he'd like a puppy, they'd probably end up giving him a bear cub.

They keep him company, as threatened, through his usual workout. He manages to lose them afterwards -- thank God for small favors and men who believe two's company and three's a crowd where showers are concerned.

At lunchtime, Ladd fixes himself a turkey sandwich and takes it into the dining room. A couple of the ladies are there, Bean and Kyle, whispering over their protein shakes and typing on their phones. He nods at them; they wave back, and he sits close enough to be friendly but far enough away not to eavesdrop.

Kaner comes in when he's halfway through and sits down across from him with a bowl of Lucky Charms. After a few minutes, Ladd realizes he's staring.

"Oh my god," he says. "Did Sharpy and Burish put you up to this? I'm going to kill them. I'm fucking _fine_ , okay? Nothing's wrong!"

Kaner blinks at him. Then, very slowly, he says, "I was going to tell you there's lettuce in your teeth."

"Oh," Ladd says. He picks the lettuce out and wipes it on a paper towel. "Uh. Sorry."

"It's cool," Kaner says. "I'm gonna go. You just keep being really normal, there." He takes his Lucky Charms to the kitchen.

Ladd doesn't have to turn his head to know the girls are staring at him. He can't blame them. He's acting like a total lunatic for no good reason. Nobody else is acting like the proverbial long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. If he can't pull himself together soon, he'll get removed from active duty.

Maybe that'd be good. Maybe what he needs is a break... but he'd just spend it feeling sorry for himself. He can't even go visit his family, because that's walking right into Vancouver. He'd be safer walking into the polar bear cage at the zoo -- those fuckers get stuffed with fish every day, they'd probably just yawn and go back to sleep.

"Hey." Someone taps his shoulder, and Ladd jumps. It's Bean, the accounting girl. "You look like you could use some zombies."

"Huh?"

"We're going to marathon The Walking Dead in the rec room," she says. "Want to join us?"

He thinks about it for a moment. "You know what? Sure. Should I bring anything?"

She gives him a pitying look. "We already made a Costco run. Just come with me."

Ladd feels slightly out of control, but he's kind of enjoying it, weirdly enough. He follows her to the rec room, where a bunch of the upstairs workers have rearranged the couches and pillows to make a sort of cave.

"He needs zombies," his new best friend informs the room.

" _Everybody_ needs zombies," Kyle says. "Even Doc loves this show, and we all thought she'd hate it."

"Want some wine and Kool-Aid?" offers Flash from the floor. She holds up a big Nalgene bottle.

"Love some, thanks." Ladd swigs from the bottle. "Not bad!" It's sweeter than he usually likes, but he feels like a bright red beverage is appropriate for a zombie show.

"Sit," Bean commands, pointing at an empty seat, so he does.

"Oh my god, I am super excited for this," California says. "I have had the shittiest week, you guys. It is so zombie time."

"Preach it, sister," says Doc from the corner of the couch, saluting with her large glass of wine.

***

Ladd is sitting on the roof of a swanky Gold Coast apartment building playing Angry Birds with the sound off when he sees Steeger's eyebrows rise over his night vision goggles. "Problem?" he asks softly.

"Maybe," Steeger says, just as quietly. "Get Hoss and Kop back up here. We're needed back home."

Ladd taps his radio. "Vracajte sa na strechu!" he says, Slovak for _come back up to the roof,_ one of the two phrases he got them to teach him. The other is seriem na vás -- _fuck you._

Moments later, Kop zips up from the skylight, Hoss right behind him. Their bags are loaded with stuff -- Ladd figures he's better off not knowing exactly what. On Steeger's signal, they cross the narrow space between fire escapes, climb in the window of a vacant building, and take the elevator down to the basement garage.

A black stretch limo with tinted windows is waiting; John is in the driver's seat, wearing a chauffeur's cap and mirrored aviator sunglasses. "Gentlemen," he greets them, as they pile into the back.

"Very subtle," Ladd says.

"Oh, please. People put up with all kinds of weird behavior from people they think might be famous," John says. He tips his hat to the garage operator, who lets them pull out without a word.

"What's going on back home? Do you know?" Steeger asks.

"Not sure," John says.

Hoss is checking his phone. "Attempted break-in," he says, "but they catch him. Alive."

Ladd's throat feels weird all of a sudden, like he dry-swallowed a pill when he shouldn't have. He doesn't say anything.

"Wonder what they need us for," Steeger says. "ID, maybe?"

"Who's dumb enough to try to break into our buildings?" John asks.

Ladd hopes he doesn't know the answer.

***

"You two," Q says when they get back. "Steeger and Ladd." They follow him to one of the smaller conference rooms, silently. Q stops outside. "We have one of the Vancouver boys in here," he says. "I want one of you to ID him. Then you can take care of business yourself, or you can call someone else in, I don't care."

"Yes, sir," Ladd says. Steeger echoes him.

"Report back later." Q stalks off down the hall.

They exchange a look. "Be my guest," Steeger says, gesturing to the door.

"All right." Ladd squares his shoulders and goes in.

He's not surprised to see Kesler, but the sight of him slumped on the table makes his stomach twist anyway. He closes the door behind him with a click.

That's when Kesler looks up. "You," he says. His face is very still.

"Me," Ladd agrees. "Mind if I sit down?"

"I'm not exactly in a position to argue," Kesler says, so Ladd turns the chair backwards and straddles it.

"What are you doing here?"

"Didn't they tell you?" Kesler crosses his arms over his chest.

"I was out. Fill me in." Ladd drums his fingers on the table over and over, rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat, hoping he can annoy him into answering.

"I was doing recon," Kesler says. "I was trying to get ahold of your plans."

"Why the hell would you do that?"

"I got pretty far," he says stubbornly.

"I don't actually want to kill you," Ladd blurts out, then bites his lip.

Kesler looks up. "I don't want to kill you either. I like -- hitting you." He blushes.

"So why did you do it? You had to know trying to break in would escalate things if you got caught."

"Bieksa," he says. "You killed Juice, and I just don't want more of my friends to die."

Ladd blinks at him. He looks so young all of a sudden. "So what were you going to do once you had the plans?"

Kesler fidgets. "Prepare better. Look, I'm not squeamish. Sometimes people have to die. But if our families could have a rivalry that was more about competition and less about killing, I'd like that better."

"You don't want to wipe us out?"

"Where's the fun in that? The territory's too big for one family to run it well, and competing keeps us all sharp." Kesler's staring at his hands. "My family means more to me than anything."

"Yeah," Ladd says. "Me too." He watches Kesler breathe for a moment, and thinks. Finally, he says, "I have an offer for you."

Kesler cracks a smile. "Is it an offer I can't refuse?"

"God, I hope so," Ladd says. "Even though it's not your daughter's wedding day. You want us to kill fewer of your outfit, right? Well, we want free passage across the border."

"That could be arranged," Kesler says slowly.

"Would you swear?" Ladd asks.

"Would _you?_ "

"Yeah," Ladd says. "It's what's best for Chicago."

"Then okay." Kesler sets his jaw.

Ladd goes back over to the door. Steeger's gone, but Duncs is there, reading _Dinner with a Cannibal_. "We made a deal," he says. "Would you bring the oath stuff in here?"

Duncs raises his eyebrows. "Sure," he says. "Be right back."

He comes back with the oath book in its protective case, the carved box that holds the other materials, and Sharpy. "This better be good," Sharpy says.

"It is," Ladd says, a little more confidently than he feels. "Free passage across the Canadian border in exchange for minimizing Vancouver casualties."

Duncs looks at Kesler. "Free passage including goods?"

"Yes."

"And we can shoot to injure?"

"Yes." Kesler keeps looking between the three of them.

"And you're willing to swear?"

"Yes."

"Fine with me, then," Duncs says. "But you have to give us some intel first. Something we can use against you if you're lying."

"That's reasonable," Kesler says. He looks up at the ceiling like it might have a list of helpful facts on it. Twice, he starts to say something, then stops before the words leave his mouth.

"I'll get us some water," Sharpy says. He's back with a pitcher and four cups before Kesler's decided what to say.

Ladd drains a glass, still watching his face. It's almost like he can see the gears turning, or maybe the rainbow beachball that spins on his laptop, behind Kesler's eyes.

"Okay," Kesler says at last. "It's not like I have proof of anything on me, so I had to think of something you'd have a reason to believe." He takes a sip of water, watching them over the rim of the glass. "There are two Sedins."

Sharpy puts down his glass very carefully. "What did you say?"

"Sedin," Kesler says. "Red-headed Swedish guy? He's identical twins."

"That, uh, that explains a lot, actually," Duncs says. "How widely known is this?"

"Not even the whole Vancouver family knows it," Kesler tells him. "But it makes sense, doesn't it?"

"It does," Sharpy says. "Okay. That's a good one. Thanks, uh --"

"Kesler." He sticks out his hand.

"I'm Sharpy. Duncs, do you think we're ready?"

"I think so," Duncs says, shaking Kesler's hand too.

The ritual is a blur of words and blood to Ladd -- and maybe the candlelight in Kesler's eyes, but he'll never admit it. When it's over, he practically drags Kesler up to his room. Not that Kesler's fighting, for once.

Ladd closes the door behind them and shoves Kesler backwards onto the bed. Then he just stands there for a moment, looking down at him.

Kesler's sprawled on his back, breathing hard. "Well?" he says. "You have stuff, right?"

"Sure I do," Ladd says. "You want to --"

"Do I want to what? Have sex? Yeah, I do." Kesler sits up and pulls his T-shirt off over his head. "I'm alive and it looks like I get to stay that way. Damn right I'm horny."

"But it's not some kind of, like, gratitude thing, is it?" Ladd takes a step forward, then stops himself. "Because we don't have to. If you don't want."

Kesler stares at him. "Are you dumb? I want. I really want. Now, if _you_ don't want to fuck me, I can put my shirt back on and go."

"No, I -- wow, no, I definitely do want to fuck you." Ladd moves towards his nightstand, where the lube and condoms are, but Kesler snags his wrist and pulls him off balance. He lands heavily on top of him.

"Smooth," Kesler says, and he's laughing, but he must not mind too much, because his mouth is warm and wet on Ladd's neck. He keeps wiggling, though. It's distracting.

"Hold still," Ladd says, grabbing his hips and pressing them into the bed. Kesler gasps. His eyes look suddenly like they're all pupil. "That works for you, huh?" Ladd lets go of his hipbones and takes hold of his wrists instead.

"Oh, fuck, yeah, I like that," Kesler says, groaning.

He moves Kesler's arms above his head. "Leave those there while I get the stuff."

"You better make it worth my while," Kesler says, but his hands stay exactly where Ladd put them, like he'd borrowed Kaner's handcuffs... okay, no, that train of thought isn't going anywhere good. He shakes his head to clear it.

"That's the plan," he says, finding the bottle of lube and a strip of condoms.

"Hey," Kesler says suddenly. He hooks Ladd's knee with one foot.

"Jesus, you're like an octopus," Ladd says, catching himself. "What?"

"We can do this, right? Like..." He scowls. "I like fighting you -- it's fun. And I'm never leaving Vancouver, and I don't want a white picket fence."

"Too much upkeep," Ladd agrees. He sits down on the edge of the bed and traces a line from Kesler's sternum down with one fingertip. "You have to paint those things, like, twice a summer. Also, I hate Labrador retrievers, and I think kids are creepy."

"You're better-looking with a black eye," Kesler says, like it's a challenge or something.

"You're hotter with my dick in your mouth," Ladd counters. His line has reached the fly of Kesler's pants, so he flicks the button open and pulls down the zipper, slowly. "So let's keep going like we are."

"What, frenemies with benefits?" Kesler says. He probably means it to sound snide, but his voice is a little shaky. Not that Ladd blames him; it's hard to sound steady when somebody is easing your pants and underwear down over your hard-on.

"Yeah," Ladd agrees. "I like the sound of that." He trails his fingertip down almost to the base of Kesler's dick, then stops. "Just to be clear, this means I get to kick your ass and also stick my dick in it?"

Kesler groans. "If you don't get moving on the sticking your dick in me part, I'm revoking the entire agreement." Ladd laughs, then uncaps the lube, but Kesler keeps going. "Maybe the gorgeous one downstairs would help me out. What was his name again?"

"I can take a hint," Ladd says, and he slides two slippery fingers in.

"Fuck oh yeah that's," is all Kesler manages to say before Ladd shuts him up with his mouth.

All things considered, he counts that as a win.


End file.
